She smiled, shaking her head. “I do,” she said softly. “Don’t you worry.” She held him close and looked around at the tableaux. Hooded headsmen, masked murderers. She smiled and soothed him. “Don’t you worry. I know exactly what to do.”
8
The castle was most definitely large, Sabrina thought, descending the main stairs to the foyer. It was full of people, guests and staff, and yet now, at dusk, as she hurried to her appointment, she didn’t see a soul. Eerie.
She headed around the stone expanse of the main stairway to where the second set of winding steps led down to the dungeon beneath. She hadn’t felt unnerved just glad that they were going swimming. Now, however…
Turning away from the cheerful recreation area, she came to a pair of heavy, brass-accented wooden doors and paused. They were open to the exhibits, of course, Joshua Valine’s fabulous tableaux of lives—and deaths—gone by. The track lighting within allowed an eerie mauve glow to whisper out of the room like fog on a dark night. She shivered, then thought that she had heard someone inside.
“Hello in there!” she called. Her voice seemed very loud. She stepped in, following the path to where Jack the Ripper stood over his last victim, Mary Kelly. Sabrina found herself pausing again, biting her lower lip. Mary Kelly really did resemble Susan Sharp. The sculptor obviously had an odd sense of humor—or esthetics. After all, he supposedly liked Sabrina and he had made her the victim on the rack. Then again, none of the women in the exhibit had fared any too well.
She heard a noise behind her, like a whisper of air, and she spun around. “Hello? Who—”
She broke off, looking around. She could see no one moving about at all. Camy Clark as Joan of Arc gazed heavenward from her stake. She herself was stretched out on the rack. Joe Johnston, shaved and wearing a white wig as Louis XVI, faced the guillotine with Anna Lee Zane as Marie Antoinette at his side. They all looked incredibly real, as if they had just been in action but suddenly stopped dead when Sabrina turned around.
Goose bumps broke out over her arms, and she took a step backward. She nearly screamed as she backed into someone. Then she saw that it was only the straw setup for the Joan of Arc display.
Face it, this place is scary as all hell, she told herself. No one had been in here, watching her, even if she had felt a presence, felt someone’s eyes on her. It was just the eerily realistic wax figures “watching” her. All the figures, with their penetrating glass eyes.
Sabrina hadn’t meant to run, but she did.
And as she did so, she thought she heard the sound of laughter. Soft, whispering laughter, like an airy breeze.
Okay, so you’re losing your mind here, she told herself as she hurried toward the second set of wooden doors. She assumed they led to the chapel, and she pushed them open, entering the room.
It wasn’t the castle’s chapel, but the crypt.
Stone shelves and flooring housed ornate tombs, with angels hewn of marble, crosses, death’s-heads and more funerary art decorating individual graves. Sabrina felt as if she had entered the catacombs of a great cathedral, there seemed to be so many dead from so long ago, stretching out at least the length of one wing of the castle. Only here, in the entry, was there dim lighting to show the unwary guest what he or she had stumbled upon. There was nothing awful about the crypt—no visible bodies decaying in shrouds, no skulls or bare bones upon the shelving. If she weren’t alone, she’d be fascinated, eager to study the crypt’s dates and art. And Terry would be in heaven here.
But, admittedly, Sabrina was spooked. Goose bumps were popping out on her arms again. She turned about, then paused, turning back. A stone sarcophagus lay dead ahead of her, a shiny new cross and fresh flowers atop it. Sabrina saw that a banner was tied to the flowers, and she approached the casket to read the words. Rest in peace and God’s love, dear Cassie.
Sabrina backed away, startled and uneasy. She’d had no idea that Cassandra Stuart had been buried here, in this castle, where she had died.
Feeling suddenly as if the crypt were closing in on her, Sabrina turned and hurried out. She closed the massive doors behind her, and as she did so, she was suddenly certain that she heard the laughter again.
“Get a grip!” she whispered angrily to herself. If the creatures in the tableaux were coming alive to taunt her, they weren’t magically making their way into the crypt, as well. This place was simply spooky as all hell.
“Great setting for a Halloween party,” she murmured irritably, realizing that, of course, it was also a great place for a Mystery Week. They had taken place here before Cassie died, and they should continue to do so. She, Sabrina Holloway, was a mystery writer. She was supposed to come alive with excitement over this type of affair, the way the others did. This was supposed to be fun.
She leaned against the crypt doors. “Right. I’m having so damn much fun, I can barely stand it,” she whispered softly to herself.
She straightened her shoulders and headed for the third pair of doors, which had to belong to the chapel.
They did.
She breathed a sigh of relief, looking in. The chapel was beautiful, with its stone arches, altar and ancient pews. The stations of the cross had been etched in stained glass along the walls, with special lighting set behind to show them off even in the gloom of the dungeon. Evidently a few Stuarts had their tombs in here instead of the crypt and these were between the stations, their occupants elaborately carved in stone atop their final resting places. Like the crypt, the chapel seemed to be immaculate, with nary a cobweb or spider. Tapers burned on the altar and from beautiful candlesticks at the end of each pew.
Sabrina started toward the altar. As she reached it, she heard footsteps behind her, and she spun around, thinking she’d scream and tear out her hair if no one was there this time.
But Dianne Dorsey, clad in a black cocktail gown, her neatly cut ebony hair swinging, was coming toward her, a smile on her face.
“Am I glad to see you!” the young writer exclaimed.
Sabrina smiled. “I’m glad to see you, too.”
“Are you the murderer?” Dianne asked anxiously.
Sabrina laughed. “I’m not supposed to tell you if I am.”
“Well, if you are, I’ll be the first to go.”
“And vice versa, of course.”
“Your note sent you here?” Dianne asked.
Sabrina nodded. “I’m supposed to meet with one of my wayward girls. Choir practice.”
Dianne laughed. “Well, despite the fact that I’m Mary, the Hare Krishna, by day, evidently I moonlight for your call-girl outfit at night.”
“Oh, no, you mean you’re not an angelic but misguided chorister?”
“Well, I’m sure I sing just as angelically as anyone, but my note said that I’m to be reprimanded for missing the last ‘appointment’ you arranged for me.”
“With whom?”
“Demented Dick—who else?” Dianne laughed.
“Oh, well, consider yourself duly reprimanded.”
“Not that I would have missed a date with Jon as Demented Dick had I had one!”
Her airy comment had Sabrina turning with curiosity about the nature of Dianne’s relationship with their host, but Dianne had begun walking through the chapel, looking at the stained glass stations of the cross.
“These are really beautiful, aren’t they?” the young woman observed.
“Gorgeous,” Sabrina agreed.
“It’s Tiffany glass,” Dianne explained. “Jon’s grandfather put them in, turn of the century. Jon told me the last time we were here.”
Curious, Sabrina followed her. “That week must have been so awful. So tragic.”
Dianne shrugged. “I hate to sound like Susan, but Cassie was so…hated.” She flashed a small smile at Sabrina. “Mostly by women, of course.”
“Apparently Jon was happy with her,” Sabrina ventured, just a little embarrassed by her not so subtle fishing expedition.
“John was planning on getting a divorce.”
“He told me.”
“He…”
Dianne smiled. “You’re assuming I was sleeping with Jon?” she demanded.
“I wasn’t assuming anything. I—”
“Actually, I adore Jon. He’s a good friend, one of the best guys out there. Tough and rugged, willing to go to bat for a friend.”
“So are you saying that you weren’t having an affair with him?”
“I’m saying that I would, wouldn’t you?” Dianne said pleasantly.
“I wasn’t here,” Sabrina reminded her without answering the question.
“Oh, I see. This is the mystery that everyone really wants to solve this week. So you’re looking for the criminal, too. You’re asking if I was having a mad, passionate affair with Jon, flew off the handle and threw his nasty wife over the balcony? No, Sabrina. Jon was a big boy, he could handle himself. He wouldn’t have thanked anyone for interference on his behalf. Besides, he did care about Cassie. She could be dazzling when she chose to be. I think she was becoming rancid because she realized she was losing him, and she was trying desperately—and pathetically, perhaps—to win him back.”
“You think so? Then you hated her but felt sorry for her as well?”
Dianne shook her head. “Nope. Don’t go giving me any gentler emotions where Cassie was involved. I simply hated her. I had good reason. But don’t think that only women despised the little darling, no matter how dazzling she could be. She did a few terrible things to men, as well. Then again, I must admit, there were those who absolutely adored her. Like your ex.”
“Brett?” Sabrina said, surprised.
Dianne looked at her, arching a brow. “Oh, dear, I’m sorry—are you two getting back together? Brett does keep implying that you’re a twosome, but V.J. told me it wasn’t so.”
“V.J. is right—it isn’t so. I had just never realized that Cassie was among Brett’s…women.”
“Really?” Dianne said, sounding startled. “Well, maybe he didn’t want his feelings known…especially by you. You may not be back together, but Brett seems to wish it were so.”
“Dianne, are you saying that Brett was having an affair with Cassie? Here, in Jon’s house?”
“His castle, darling. You mustn’t call it a house,” Dianne said, amused. “But yes, they were having an affair, in Jon’s castle. They were discreet. Brett was in the midst of a wild infatuation—but you know Brett well, so you know how his infatuations come and go. Cassie probably wanted to irritate her hubby, but Brett really does value his friendship with Jon.”
“But not enough to avoid sleeping with his wife.”
“Now, that’s a dangerous tone. Moralistic, even. How intriguing. But then, our host does have an impact on most women, doesn’t he? We all instantly spring to his defense. Like Lucy defended Count Dracula even as he sucked her blood dry!”
“I’m not trying to be moralistic, and I hardly see Jon Stuart as Count Dracula.”
“Tall, dark, handsome…devastating,” Dianne said. “I admit, I adore the man. He’d be welcome to my blood anytime.”
“But, Dianne, I can’t see where, with any man, sleeping with his wife would encourage a friendship.”
“I told you, Brett was infatuated. Madly in love.”
“Dianne, you bitch!”
Dianne and Sabrina both swung around at the sound of the voice coming from the doors to the chapel.
“Brett, this is a house of worship!” Dianne said. “He can’t say that in a chapel, can he?” she asked, glancing at Sabrina.
Sabrina shrugged. “He said it, didn’t he?”
“You could go to hell for that, Brett,” Dianne taunted.
But Brett wasn’t amused. He was striding down the aisle between the pews. “It’s not true!” he stated furiously, glaring at Dianne, then looking more petulantly at Sabrina. “You know me, it’s not true!”
Sabrina looked at him, slowly arching a brow. “What isn’t true, Brett? Are you trying to tell me that you weren’t having an affair with Cassandra Stuart?”
He didn’t exactly deny it. He spun on Dianne again. “Where did you get your information? It’s all a pack of lies!” He was clearly agitated, hands on his hips, handsome face contorted.
Dianne lifted her chin. “From someone who knew.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Someone Cassie confided in.”
“She was delusional! Don’t you dare go around spreading the story that I was sleeping with Cassandra.”
“Is it a story, Brett?” Dianne challenged.
“Damn you, Di—” he began.
But Dianne interrupted him, black hair tossed back defiantly, hands—with long, black polished nails—on her hips. “Maybe you pushed her over the balcony, Brett.”
“Me? Oh, this is rich, Dianne! Come on, I wasn’t married to her. I didn’t need to get rid of anyone. You were crazy about Jon. Always have been, always will be. And now you’re pointing a finger at me, trying to make my wife think—”
“Ex-wife, Brett,” Sabrina interjected.
He ignored her and kept talking. “You’re trying to make Sabrina think that I was involved with a married woman—and then in the next breath you’re accusing me of killing her!”
“Maybe you were afraid that she was about to tell your buddy, Jon, the truth of the situation. She was just using you, Brett. Oh, I know you’re the great lover, but she was in love with Jon in her warped, sick way. And—”
“If anyone had a reason to kill her, it was Jon. So why are you trying to make me look guilty?”
“Jon wasn’t in the room! He was outside.”
“So someone else was in on it. One of the guests, his staff—a bloody stranger!”
“And maybe she teased you just a little bit too much, a little bit too long, and—”
“I should give you a black eye!” Brett exclaimed. “Not that anyone would notice, with your damn black makeup. What is it with you, Dianne? Are you trying to scare your readers into buying your books?”
“Oh, Brett, is that all you can come up with? Is everything in your life about book sales, about securing a place on a list? We’re talking about a woman’s life here.”
“Yes! Life—not death. I mean it, Dianne. How dare you make such accusations? You want the truth, the real truth? I did care about her. I didn’t want her dead or—”
The sound of a gunshot suddenly exploded in the quiet chapel.
Startled, Sabrina ducked, and Dianne, too, dropped to the floor.
Brett didn’t move as quickly. And the back of his tailored blue silk shirt was suddenly soaked in red.
Bloodred.
The note had sent him to the crypt.
Not his Mystery Week instruction note, but the first note he had found thrust beneath his door—the note Camy had denied writing.
It had read:
“You are a demented dick, thinking that you’re slick. You’re only sick, you maggot tick. You must go below, lie with your wife, minus all life. If a night’s sweet passion you still crave, you must go sleep down in her grave.”
And so he had come here, to the crypt, where his ancestors rested. Along with Cassie. Despite her alleged hatred of Scotland, her will had actually requested that she be laid to rest in Jon’s castle. To avoid morbid scandal-and-celebrity seekers, he had allowed reporters to believe she was being buried back in the States. Her family, happy to comply with his wishes and to avoid prurient interest, had been vague about her burial.
So there lay his wife, in the center of Lochlyre Castle’s crypt.
Apparently his guests knew where she rested. For on her tomb lay flowers in her honor.
He swore softly, staring at them. Were they truly in her memory, or a taunt to him? Did someone here really think he had killed her?
Or was someone suffering a brutally guilty conscience and trying to cast blame his way.
If he’d been with her, she wouldn’t have fallen. She wouldn’t have been alone. Alon
e for a killer to come upon in a precarious position…
The sound of a gunshot galvanized Jon into action. He raced from the crypt, certain the blast had come from nearby.
He ran straight into Thayer Newby. Tom Heart and Joe Johnston were close behind.
“Anyone else down here?” Joe demanded.
“The chapel!” Thayer shouted.
They ran the short distance to the chapel doors, bursting in together.
Dianne and Sabrina were there, hunched down by the altar.
Brett was on the ground. Between the two rows of pews.
Swearing, despite the fact that it was the chapel.
Brett looked up as the men entered. Jon realized that they were followed closely by Reggie and Anna Lee.
“Can you believe it?” Brett said, disgusted. “Me! I’m the first to go. Damnation! I didn’t see a thing, didn’t hear a thing. I was a damned sitting duck, an idiot, a fuc—”
“Brett! It is a chapel,” Sabrina reminded him.
She was by Dianne’s side, and obviously the two of them had been trying to make McGraff feel better about becoming a ghost. Sabrina’s blue eyes were huge, her hair shimmering as it fell around her shoulders. Jon felt a strange pulse ticking against his throat and forced his attention back to the situation at hand.
His heart, he realized, was still pounding. The bullet he had found in the wall earlier had unnerved him. It had been real. And it hadn’t been there before. He would have seen it. He walked that hallway every day of his life when he was in residence. He’d been afraid that someone was toting real fire power with real purpose.
Now he was so relieved to find that this gunshot was part of the game that he needed to sit.
Brett was flushing, staring at him. “Sorry, Jon. I suppose this place is sacred or something, huh? But the game instructions did tell us to come here.”
“Well, it is a chapel, yes,” Jon said. “But I think you can get away with ‘damn,’ especially if you’ve just been shot with red paint. So who did it?” He looked questioningly at Dianne and Sabrina.
Dianne smiled like a cat. Sabrina shrugged. “We didn’t see. We were in the midst of an argument.”
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